WHILE the Cuban Republic was still wandering in the tall grass, and God was leading Spain to destruction over the well-worn path of tyranny, I had my first view of Captain-general Weyler in his Havana palace.

It was a time of terror. The streets of Havana swarmed with spies, the dungeons of Morro Castle and the mighty Cabañas were crowded with Cuban patriots; and the trampled grass between the colossal walls of the venerable fortress was stained with the blood of insurgents murdered in public with all the outward surroundings of law. From one end of Cuba to the other came stories of massacre and pitiless persecution.

Yet the armies of Gomez, Garcia, and Maceo still held the field, the Cuban junta in Havana, under the very nose of the terrible Captain-general, continued to hold its secret sessions, and the American newspaper correspondents, treading the secret precincts of insurgent activity, in the shadow of the royal palace, saw to it that the lamp of American sympathy was kept trimmed and burning brightly.

How delicately balanced are the decisive events of history sometimes! There are days when the destiny of a nation may be influenced by the slightest breath.

At such a time I saw Captain-general Weyler, the most sinister figure of the nineteenth century. He was a short, broad-shouldered man, dressed in a general's uniform, with a blood-red sash wound around his waist. His head was too large for his body. The forehead was narrow, the nose and jaws prominent and bony; the chin heavy and projecting. The sharp lower teeth were thrust out beyond the upper rows, giving the mouth a singular expression of brutal determination. The eyes were gray and cold. The voice was harsh and guttural -- a trace of his Austrian ancestry -- and he jerked his words out in the curt manner of a man accustomed to absolute authority. It was a smileless, cruel face, with just a suggestion of treachery in the crows' feet about the eyes; otherwise bold and masterful.

This was Don Valeriano Weyler, Marquis of Tenerife, the Spanish Captain-general, who had just ordered his army practically to exterminate the Cuban nation, the fierce disciple of Cortez and Alva, at the mention of whose name the women and children of unhappy Cuba shuddered; the incarnation of the surviving spirit of mediæval Europe, desperately struggling to retain a foothold in the western world. He was the guardian of the last remnant of Spanish authority in the hemisphere once controlled by Spain; a worthy instrument to close the most unspeakable period of colonial government.

"You have set your hand to a difficult task," I ventured.

"We shall crush the insurgents like that," and the Captain-general closed his hand as though he were strangling something.

"It is hard to extinguish the republican spirit on this side of the Atlantic," I said. "It feeds on the air."

"I have two hundred thousand Spanish soldiers and fifty generals," said Weyler. "If it were not for the encouragement of the Americans, the Cubans would lie down like whipped dogs."

It was the voice of the Middle Ages that spoke.

"Two hundred thousand troops against a few half-starved men?" I said. "Isn't it strange that the struggle continues?"

"No!" -- the jaws snapped viciously -- "the Cubans are fighting us openly; the Americans are fighting us secretly."

"How do you account for it?"

"The American newspapers are responsible," he cried with a sudden passion. "They poison everything with falsehood. They should be suppressed."

"But the American newspapers did not stir up Mexico and Peru and the other Spanish-American colonies to rebellion," I answered. "The American newspapers were not in existence when the Netherlands fought against the Spanish crown for independence. It is the custom in these times to lay the blame for everything on the newspapers. The newspapers did not organize or arm the Cuban insurgents. Why are the Cubans fighting at all?"

"Because they are lawless; because they hate authority."

"Who made them lawless? Spain has controlled this island for four hundred years."

Weyler turned in a fury and struck the table with his fist.

"Men like you," he snarled, "who excite rebellion everywhere -- meddlesome scribblers."

"Your Excellency flatters me."

"Take care," he said, with a threatening frown. "I have a long arm. The penalty for trafficking with the insurgents is death; do you understand that -- death!"

His teeth shone between his lips; his eyes were the eyes of an angry wolf.

"I understand; but my death would not help the Spanish cause. There are a hundred other writers in New York eager to take my place."

At that moment the door opened. A small, pale man entered the room and laid some papers on Weyler's desk. The intruder gave me a sidewise glance. I recognized him. He was a spy of the Cuban insurgents, attached to the palace; a shrewd, soft-footed, silent man. He withdrew as quietly as he came, and glancing slyly over his shoulder at the Captain-general, whose back was turned, he raised his eyebrows and smiled.

"Remember," said Weyler, as I left him, "you will be watched in all that you do here. My eyes will be on you night and day."

That night I was surprised by the sudden appearance of a New York correspondent who had incurred the death penalty by visiting the insurgent army. It was known that Weyler's spies were searching for him in every part of the island. He walked into the Hotel Inglaterra, and sat down in the café among the chattering Spanish officers with a jaunty insouciance that well became his daring character.

"Nice evening," he remarked coolly, nodding to me across the table.

"Great God," I whispered, "don't you know --"

"How did you get here?"

"Came down from Key West on the regular steamer."

"But I thought you were hiding somewhere in Cuba."

"Not at all. I escaped from the island, but I couldn't keep away. To-morrow I'll start through the tall grass for the insurgent army, and I'll stay with it till the fight is won or the Cuban Republic is wiped out. Poor old Weyler! How mad he'll be when he reads my next despatches from Maceo's headquarters."

It is doubtful whether the Captain-general ever realized the skill and coolness of some of the men who fought the battles of the Cuban Republic in the American press. They swarmed in his capital day and night; they wandered about, picking up rare old fans in the shops, gossiping with the officers in the restaurants, listening to the Spanish military concerts in the broad Prado or the plaza, admiring the Cuban girls at the barred windows, and apparently leading lives of careless indolence; but never for an hour did they relax their vigilance, and when a correspondent disappeared mysteriously for an hour or two, he was sure to be shut up somewhere with an insurgent agent, listening to the latest news of the struggle for liberty.

"The Spanish army then retreated," wrote one correspondent.

"I can't pass that," growled the Spanish military censor. " I will not allow any one to cable such a statement. You must correct it."

"Right," said the correspondent. "I made a mistake."

Then he wrote, "The Spanish army advanced gallantly rearward."

"Good!" cried the Spaniard, whose knowledge of English was somewhat hazy. "That is the truth. Spanish soldiers never retreat."

Thus the game of life and death was played in old Havana; and many a time the Spanish lion roared defiantly, unconscious of the fact that the despised correspondents had tied its tail in bowknots.

Weyler was simply the agent of a political theory that discontent should be cured by stern repression rather than by remedial legislation. It is a policy as old as the human race. It has always been a failure, but it springs up in every age. He did his work honestly and frankly. Cubans who refused to recognize Spanish authority must be killed. There were plenty to take their places.

I saw the Captain-general several times, and he was always the same stubborn tyrant. The newspapers were to blame for everything. They were the curse of civilized society. It would be better for the world if every editor and correspondent were shot.

It was important to prove the responsibility of the Spanish crown for barbarities like these, and I made my way to Campo Florida at night. Guided by two patriotic Cubans, I found the place where the victims had been hurriedly buried. A few strokes of a spade uncovered the ghastly evidences of murder. The hands of the slain Cubans were tied behind their backs. The sight revealed by the flickering light of our lanterns would have moved the hardest heart. I made a vow in that moment that I would help to extinguish Spanish sovereignty in Cuba, if I bad to shed my blood for it. That vow was kept.

With a list of the murdered Cubans and all the circumstances of their death, I appeared once more before the Captain-general in his palace. The whole story was told. Weyler's dull eyes glittered dangerously. His lips grew white.

"Well," he said, when I had finished, "what do you come to me for?"

"You have declared that the American newspapers were responsible for the Cuban rebellion."

"Yes."

"Come with me and see the real cause of the war. I will show you men, supposed to have been killed in fair fight on the field, with their hands bound behind them. I will prove to you crimes against civilization committed by the Spanish army in the name of Spain."

"Lies! vile lies! The Cuban agitators have deceived you!" cried Weyler.

"You have heard the simple truth. I have seen the victims with my own eyes."

"And you dare --"

"To tell the truth -- yes. I dare not do anything else."

"I will expel you from the island."

"You may do that, but how will it help matters? I am a mere cog in a vast machine. I have come to you fairly and frankly with proofs of an almost incredible crime against humanity. If your only answer is a decree of exile, you will confess that the Spanish government is responsible."

The rage of the Captain-general whitened his face. It would be hard to imagine a more malignant countenance. The veins in his forehead swelled; his hands twitched.

"I will make an example of you," he roared.

"You may threaten me, but the power I represent is beyond any government; it is elemental in America."

"You can force me to go, but I will return some day without permission from Spain. Good day, sir."

"Good day."

And that was my last sight of the most monstrous personality of modern times until I saw him slouching through the streets of Madrid a week before the United States unsheathed the sword for Cuba. Weyler kept his word and made me an exile from Cuba. But I returned to the island just in time to take a Spanish flag with my own hand, and to see the smoking hulks of Cervera's fleet along the Cuban shore.

* * * * *

"Why did we allow Weyler to live?" repeated the gray-haired Cuban leader. "Because he was more useful to us alive than dead. Assassination? No, no! the time has gone when assassination could help any cause in the world. It is a fool's argument. A dozen patriots offered to kill the Captain-general and die with him. We could have destroyed him at almost any moment. But we would not stain our cause with murder. He little thought, when he issued his bloody commands, that we were always at his very elbow, always within striking distance. If we had assassinated Weyler, we would have lost the sympathy of the American people and destroyed our only chance for liberty and independence. There is nothing equal to patience in a fight against oppression."

* * * * *

It was a strange experience for a man exiled from Cuba as an enemy of Spain to stand before the Spanish Prime Minister in Madrid. Yet there I was. Don Canovas del Castillo was not only the actual head of the government, but the supreme political and moral leader of his people. His voice was the voice of the nation. It was he who seated the reigning dynasty on the throne, and his hand wrote the constitution of the monarchy.

He looked like an old lion as he sat in his splendid audience room, under Velasquez's matchless portraits of Philip IV. and Louis XIV. in their childhood, his dark eyes flashing beneath his massive forehead and shaggy, white brows. No one could have looked upon that strong, venerable face and heard that hard, steely voice, without knowing that Spain was ready to meet her fate, whatever it might be, and that Spanish pride was as unyielding and unreasonable as in the days of Charles V., when his sceptre swayed Europe.

"My government will not yield an inch to force or to threats of force," he said. "Spain will make no concession until the insurrection in Cuba has been brought under control, and until we can give, of our own free will, what we refuse to allow any one to take, either by armed insurrection or by treasonable intrigue with other nations. Independent Cuba would mean a government dominated by negroes; not such negroes as are to be found in the United States, but African negroes, African in every sense. Independent Cuba would mean civil war between whites and blacks; it would mean fifty years of anarchy; it would mean the destruction of the island and its commerce. Such a republic would be a menace to the peace of the United States. It would be worse than Hayti, far worse. Spain cannot undertake to be guided in her domestic affairs by any other government, nor can she allow any foreign agitation to influence her in dealing with her rebellious colony. We seek peace, but we will not shrink from war in any matter touching our honor. If the United States forces war upon Spain, we are ready to defend ourselves, but we are determined that Spain shall be the nation attacked, and not herself the aggressor. Spain will defend herself at all hazards. The question of the comparative strength of nations will not enter into the matter at all. We are ready to meet whatever the future holds for us."

When the mobs of Madrid were shrieking defiance to the United States in the Puerto del Sol, and the wild bulls furnished by the last descendant of Columbus were fighting to raise money for a warship to be used against the new-world champions of Cuba, I went with a friend to see the Escurial, that monastery-fortress where Philip II. retired to nurse his gouty leg after God and England had destroyed the Armada.

As we descended into the wonderful marble crypt which holds the dust of all the sovereigns of Spain, my companion uncovered and said: --